Under His Hand by Anne Calhoun Page B

Drew drive into her body, then shudder in her arms, reduced her to female at its most primitive. Taken. Possessed. The spoils of battle, even. She would come under the sting of his teeth on her shoulder, the brutal grip of his hand on her hip.
    Tonight was different. Tonight the remnants of shock entwined with lust in her veins, and she added submissive to the list of adjectives describing how she felt when he had her spread and penetrated within thirty seconds of walking in the door, or, as the case may be, climbing through the still-open window. The unorthodox position left her off balance, straining up on tiptoe with her forearms braced in front of her face, pushing back into each thrust to avoid smacking her forehead on the wall. Her helpless acceptance made him growl again, low and deep in his throat.
    His strokes were relentless, almost punishing, as was his arm around her waist, clamped down on her slippery flesh. The fingers of his other hand gathered her loose, sweat-dampened waves of hair at her nape and turned her head to the side so he could look at her. Her eyelids fluttered, on their way to closing as desire surged with each slick stroke, but an unfamiliar tenseness flashed behind the familiar hot need in his blue eyes.
    For a brief moment she surfaced from the whirlpool of erotic sensation, but he angled his hips forward, stroking over a spot inside her that sent hot, electric pulses zinging through her. She succumbed to the immediate. The ribbed undershirt chafed her nipples each time they brushed the wall, and pleasure swelled in her clit. She shivered and moaned over the sound of his abdomen slapping against her ass.
    With an inadvertent tug that made her gasp, his damp hand stroked down through her hair and across her rib cage to cup the top of her sex. One fingertip circled her taut, slick nub. She threw her head back, straining into his unmovable body as he maintained his pace, fast and hard. Her orgasm slammed into her a split second before he ground his hips against her bare bottom and gave a stuttering groan. His cock swelled and pulsed inside her convulsing channel as he mouthed her jaw and neck through slow, jerky orgasmic strokes. Then he exhaled against her shoulder, letting his weight slump into her body.
    As the waves subsided she sagged in his grip, waiting for her jellylike muscles to firm up enough to hold her weight. When they did she tossed a languid smile over her shoulder, her needy gasps turning soft with satisfaction. That was beyond the heat of a normal welcome home fuck, well into incendiary, and surely sex that amazing negated the issue of the naughtily open windows.
    He didn’t smile back. A deep red flush stood high on his cheekbones, visible even under his perpetual tan. Sweat trickled through the blond stubble on his jaw. “I missed you, too, Tess. Now you can explain about the windows.”
    Oh shit.
     

    He withdrew as he spoke. Given the hint of steel under his soft tone, she did not want to be naked for this conversation, so she pushed herself upright and yanked up her panties. The cotton resisted, clinging to her damp skin as she peered at his back, headed for the bathroom.
    “Don’t move.” The words were tossed over his shoulder in a curt fashion that made her freeze.
    Definitely a panties-up conversation.
    When he came back into the bedroom he stopped in the same strip of moonlight she’d occupied when he’d ambushed her. His short blond hair lay plastered forward, serious stubble shadowed his jaw and the planes and curves of his face were expressionless in the pale swath of light as he considered her. She expected him to look at her body. Her tank—his tank, really—was soaked with water and sweat and therefore practically see-through, and her nipples pushed pertly against the material. Tiny white string bikini panties cut high on her hip covered her trimmed curls, and her legs were bare all the way to her painted toenails. Under normal circumstances his gaze would